It absolutely was, though. For one, Kirsty would matchmake a fencepost if someone hung a nice plaid across it, and for another, every time he looked over, Eilidh was giving him thislook. As though he was… endearing.
Ciaran found this distinctly alarming, because she should be positively furious with him.
So, he let himself be a coward twice over, because he just tried to stop looking at her.
“Ah, Gunn.” A sharp rap on the table drew Ciaran’s attention to Ewan Buchanan. “I meant to speak with ye. After months of rebuilding, we’re getting the first new batch to distill tomorrow.”
There was a handful of men around the Great Hall who paused their chatter at this to raise their glasses and let out a cheer. Even with everything weighing upon Ciaran, he found asmile creeping across his face at their clear happiness. He would do anything to bring that kind of optimism to his own people.
“Aye, aye, let me speak!” Ewan called out to the men, though he, too, wore a smile. The men grumbled good-naturedly, but their noise fell back to a low hum. Ewan turned to Ciaran, who braced himself for what he knew was to come. “Anyway, Gunn, I was hoping that ye would join us down at the distillery. Bring a little bit of that Gunn wisdom to our newest batch.”
Ciaran hunched his shoulders against the instinctive refusal that tried to rise to the surface. He shouldn’t.
But, damn it all, hewanted to. He missed the work of distilling, missed using his hands to make something that would please people, rather than dealing in death and treachery.
He hesitated, feeling the weight of too many eyes upon him.
“Aye,” he agreed after a moment. “Aye. I’ll help ye in whatever way I can.”
Ewan gave him an approving nod, but it wasn’t the laird’s reaction that Ciaran cared to observe.
His eyes darted to Eilidh, and, once again, he found her already looking in his direction. This time, he let their gazes meet and linger.
And damn him if it didn’t feel good when she gave him a small, encouraging smile.
9
“All right, lads. Let’s go, then.”
There was a roar of protest as Ewan Buchanan pulled a big iron key from his belt and prepared to fit it into the door of the new distillery.
“Nay!”
“My Laird, ye have to give it more than that!”
Even Arran McPherson was shaking his head somberly, as if even he was disappointed by this display of unimpressive pragmatism.
“Ye have to say sommat,” he advised out of the corner of his mouth. “Make it special, ye ken.”
Ewan glanced over at the men who were—from the youngest lad, who couldn’t be more than fourteen where he stood, looking eager at his father’s side, to the eldest, most grizzled man of the lot—nodding vehemently.
“We need a speech!” one called from the back.
Ewan raised his eyes heavenward, either seeking patience or divine inspiration.
“Fine,” he said. “How about this: Gordon is a bastard, but he cannae keep us down. Now, let’s go make some damned finewhisky and then make sure that the scunner never gets to taste a drop.”
This speech, simple, and a touch bloodthirsty though it might have been, was met with raucous approval.
“That’s the stuff there, m’laird!” a middle-aged man hooted. “That’s what Buchanans are made of!”
Ewan shook his head, but he was grinning as he turned back to the door—pausing pointedly to see if there were any more objections—and opened the distillery to the workers. Many of the men, particularly the older ones, paused to clap their laird on the shoulder as they passed through the door one by one until only Arran, Ciaran, James, and Ewan were still outside.
“Have ye considered being less well-liked,brathair?”Arran teased as he followed Ewan into the distillery, which still smelled of fresh-cut wood and the polish that had made the floorboards gleam. “It might save ye a great deal of time.”
“Not bothering with ye would save me a great deal of time,” Ewan retorted, though there was a true fraternal affection in his expression as he took in Arran.
Ciaran felt the oddest surge of envy to see how friendly and familiar they were with one another.
